


Resolution

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deductions, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing at Midnight, M/M, New Year's Eve, Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: There’s ten seconds until midnight, and Sherlock deduces some life changing information about his army-doctor.Will he finally have someone to kiss at midnight?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 56
Kudos: 252





	Resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Разрешение проблемы (Resolution)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728180) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> As always, thank you to my beta, Chaserjinx8065.

“Everyone got a drink? It’s almost time!” Mrs Hudson leads the way into the living room, where the television is on, streaming the live view from Southbank. 

“I don’t see why we have to do this here,” Mycroft snickers, looking down his nose at the label on the champagne bottle, “I have access to an excellent suite on Embankment, with a beautiful view of the London Eye—“

“Oh shut up, Mycroft.” Lestrade teases, pushing a fresh glass of champagne into the elder brother’s hand. “We wanted to have the celebrations here this year. Be nice.” He ushers Mycroft out of the kitchen, and one by one, the guests claim their champagne glasses from the table and take their place in the living room. 

Soon, only Sherlock and John remain. Sherlock reluctantly places his glass of wine on the counter and steps towards the table. He glances up, only to double-take at the expression on John’s face. He can’t quite place it, this deep melancholy settling under his eyes. John notices Sherlock watching, and the look disappears as quickly as it had arrived. 

“John, are you okay?” Sherlock asks, selecting a glass of champagne and passing it to his blogger. John accepts it with a murmur of thanks, placing his now empty beer bottle on the counter. 

“Yeah, just tired y’know. Busy day.” John gives a weary smile and wanders into the living room, leaving behind a dazed Sherlock. They have lived together long enough to know when the other is lying, and besides, John has done nothing all day, other than help Mrs Hudson set up for the party. That hadn’t required much effort, considering she insisted on making all of the food herself. What is really on his mind? 

Sherlock takes a tentative step forwards, hovering in the kitchen doorway, his eyes wandering over the retreating form of John Watson. He takes a deep breath and lets his mind focus—paying close attention to all of the subtle clues laid out across John’s body; trying to understand what could be darkening his mood. It has been a long time since he’s let himself run free over his blogger. Early on in their friendship, John had insisted Sherlock ask whenever he wanted to know something, rather than deducing John to an inch of his life. Since then, Sherlock has actively stopped himself reading the majority of John’s body language, in an inane attempt to protect his ‘privacy’. Sherlock doesn’t understand John’s fascination with the concept, considering they share most of their lives together anyway. Still, he obeys John’s wishes because, well, because he’s John. Why wouldn’t he?

“Ten!” The countdown starts from the living room, and John turns to glance over his shoulder, seeking out the missing detective. Sherlock makes no effort to move, instead identifying and cataloguing all of the data pouring off the doctor. 

“Nine!” Dress shoes, nice shirt, new trousers; making an effort for tonight, in his own way. Hair styled back, new, but stylish—trying to impress someone? Who is here to impress? Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly; the only person he hadn’t met already was Molly’s new boyfriend, and Sherlock is sure John isn’t making an effort for him. 

“Eight!” Was John supposed to have a date? Has he been stood up, and that was why he’d dressed up? No, neither he nor Mrs Hudson had mentioned another potential guest, and John usually makes a point of warning Sherlock about these things. Something about ‘behaving’, whatever that means. 

“Seven!” Sherlock lets himself focus on the rest of John’s outline, reading data between his clothing folds. Dropped shoulders, even stance, a relatively relaxed neck. Good—no stress; the wound in his shoulder was not bothering him, and his leg hasn’t played up in months. John’s neck tends to tense and draw his shoulders up when he’s tired, but there is no evidence of that here. Definitely lying. But why?

“Six!” Another small smile spreads across the doctor's face, and he holds his hand out, beckoning Sherlock to join him in the living room. Sherlock ignores the instruction, but he focuses on how John’s facial muscles adapt for the smile; how it reaches his eyes, yet takes on a slightly different meaning than before. There is warm affection there, a juxtaposition from his earlier slip. Either he is an outstanding actor, or John is experiencing multiple emotions at once. 

“Five!” Something is definitely wrong, but how can John be feeling upset and affectionate at the same time? Unless he is upset because of the affection. Very possible. Perhaps John is in love with something but is upset that he feels this way. What could he possibly love, that would bring him so much sadness? 

“Four!” Sherlock observes John’s outstretched hand, the warm smile perched on his lips and the affection in his eyes, and the pieces fall into place. He is an idiot. Not something; someone. And that someone is standing in the kitchen of 221b, trying to deduce what is wrong with his flatmate. 

“Three!” Had John felt this way, the whole time, and Sherlock had been too caught in his own self-preservation to see it? Because it’s there alright—now he knows what to look for, the attraction is plastered all over John’s body, as clear as day.

“Two!” What should he do? John is clearly distressed by this knowledge, but is that because John ‘I’m-not-gay’ Watson has fallen for a man, or because he believes it to not be reciprocated? Should Sherlock wait until they are alone, blurt out his painfully late deduction, or should he say something now? He’s never been good at human behaviour, and this proves it. 

“One!” He scans the room, and his eyes widen at the realisation that everyone here is in a couple. Mycroft and Lestrade, Molly and her boyfriend; even Mrs Hudson has brought Mr Chatterjee from downstairs, despite the wife in Doncaster. 

“Happy New Year!” The bells of Big Ben begin to chime, and Sherlock makes a split-second decision. 

Fuck it. 

He grabs John’s outstretched hand and whirls him around to face him before leaning forward to kiss him. John freezes, his glass of champagne dropping out of his hand, spilling all over the carpet. If it breaks, Sherlock doesn’t hear. He goes to pull away, mortified that he’s misread the situation and this isn’t what John wants after all, until two strong hands wind their way around his waist and pull him forward. John deepens the kiss, letting his eyes flutter closed. 

It’s like breathing for the first time. 

Sherlock blindly drops his glass in the direction of the table, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders. This is beyond anything Sherlock has ever experienced. He has never shared people’s fascination with kissing, the odd obsession with pushing mouths together—but now, he understands. With John, fireworks explode behind his eyes and a deep warmth settles in his stomach. He could do this forever, devouring John, and letting himself be consumed in return. 

He’s aware, after a while, that the room has begun to quieten down, the excited chatter of the evening dulling into muffled whispers. He swears he even hears Mycroft cry out: “For God’s sake,” but he shuts it out, focusing on the body surrounding him. 

If this is what kissing John Watson is like, he should have done it years earlier. 

Finally, they break apart, both panting for breath. Sherlock’s gaze catches John’s, and he smirks at the doctor’s swollen lips and ruffled hair, creating a mental note to make John look like this as often as possible. 

He desperately wants to lean forward again; take John by the mouth and never let him go, but he’s painfully aware of the party of onlookers. Later. Once the guests have returned home and Mrs Hudson has descended back to 221a, they will have all the time in the world. 

Commending his self-restraint, he lifts a hand and brushes a stray hair hair off John’s forehead, staring down into those beautiful blue eyes.

“Happy New Year, John.”


End file.
